“Most recently, yes. She was a farmer all her life, though,” Lauren said. “We grew up on my father’s family farm out in the county, but after Dad passed away two years ago, Mom moved to Tuttle Corner to be closer to me and my brother John. He’s had some hard times and Mom wanted to be there for him.”
“That must have been nice to have her nearby.”
“It was. She liked it too,” Lauren said. “She found a job working out at Luke’s Farm. It was a perfect fit because they’d been trying to diversify part of their acreage into indigo but had been struggling. Mom had the magic touch and got them sorted in no time.”
“Oh yeah?”
“They’d been trying to take advantage of the new program for tobacco famers wanting to switch over, but it wasn’t as easy as they thought it’d be.”
“Did you say tobacco?”
“Yes, Luke’s was a tobacco farm—well, still is mostly, but ever since the buyout, people have been trying to find ways to diversify their crops. Indigo grows in the same soil with the same equipment so it’s a natural switch.”
Interesting. I jotted down a note and then directed the conversation back to the issue at hand. “Can you tell me about your mom’s experience with Dr. Davenport?”
Lauren paused a moment and I heard her take in a breath. “I don’t blame him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You don’t?” I didn’t know what she was referring to but I didn’t want to let on.
“He told us that there was a chance Mom would have complications. Granted, he told us it was less than a one-percent chance, so you never really think it’s going to happen—” She broke off again and I could tell she was struggling to keep her composure. “Dr. Davenport was very kind. I think in many ways he was as shocked as we were.”
“Do you mind me asking what happened?”
“Mom had something called atherosclerosis—she was having some chest pain and shortness of breath, so my brother made her an appointment to see Dr. Davenport. He said she had a blockage and needed this procedure called a cardiac cathero . . . or maybe it was an angio-something-or-other . . . I can’t remember exactly what it was called, but Dr. Davenport said it was like a Roto-Rooter for your heart.”
I remembered Susan Pettis had described her procedure the same way.
“Anyways, during the procedure I guess some of the plaque in her artery broke off and traveled to her brain. Caused a stroke right on the spot and there wasn’t anything anyone could do. When Dr. Davenport came out to tell us what had happened, he was pale and sweating. I knew as soon as I looked at him.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “That must have been a terrible shock.”
“It was.” Then she added after a moment, “I guess it was just her time.”
I still hadn’t come across any information to use in the obit, so I tried to steer the conversation back to Dr. Davenport without seeming insensitive. “I heard from his colleagues that Dr. Davenport sometimes attended the funerals of his patients or made donations in their name. Was that the case for you?”
“He did both, actually,” Lauren said. “He came to the church service and made a donation to the Foundation for a Smokefree America in Mom’s name.”
I noticed her words didn’t match her tone. Instead of sounding touched or grateful, she sounded—for the first time in our conversation—bitter. “Was that not a good thing?”
“Well,” she said, “as someone who grew up farming tobacco, the Foundation for a Smokefree America wasn’t exactly the best choice of places to make a donation in her name. It felt like adding insult to injury, if you want to know the truth.”
This was not the heartwarming anecdote I wanted to open the obit. Far from making Arthur sound like a caring doctor, it made him seem insensitive. But it was interesting, and, I reminded myself, I wasn’t writing a eulogy. This obit was supposed to be an objective look at who Arthur Davenport was. The good, the bad, and the ugly, as Flick had said. I took Lauren’s full contact information and thanked her for her time.
“You’re welcome,” she said, sounding weary. “At least she’s with Daddy now. That was always her favorite place—right next to him.”
CHAPTER 28
I was about to leave for the day when the bell on the front door chimed to signal that someone had walked in. People are in and out of our newsroom all day, so I didn’t think twice about it until a sickening cloud of men’s cologne wafted over and assaulted my nasal passages. That smell could only belong to one person. A second after the smell hit, I heard Toby’s nasal, high-pitched voice ring out. “Hey, hey, newsroom!”
I quickly closed my browser and stuffed the obit file into my bag. I could tell he was getting closer by the concentration of stink heading my way.
“Hey there, Riley!”
“Hello,” I said without looking up.
“What’s the matter, Buttercup? You mad at ol’ Toby?” He leaned against my cubicle wall, so his OOTD (Outfit of the Day) was in full view. He wore brand-spanking-new white men’s high-top basketball shoes, with navy knit pants and a bright orange long-sleeved shirt in a technical fabric that fit snuggly across his belly, leaving little to the imagination. Today’s shirt message: Beware of My Game. As I looked up at him, all I could think was how I’d never be able to un-know that Toby had an outie. Ew.
“I’m not mad,” I said, pretending to straighten some papers on my desk. “Just busy.”
“Aw, don’t do me like that,” he said in a tone of voice best described as insulted-baby. “Tell Toby what you’re working on?”
“Not the Davenport story, thanks to you.”
This made him laugh, which made his shirt rise up a few inches, which exposed a strip of hairy
